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Call a Spade a Spade

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"Mr. President." Her greeting was cordial, fingers clasped before her lap gracefully as she stood in the doorway.

Michener peered up, his small beady eyes shifting between her and the door. The woman was unreadable, wearing a benign glaze, and she was cleaner now than she'd been before. Changed clothes, but he still identified her as one of Chandler's crew from the hotel.

"We haven't been formally introduced," she offered politely but assured. "Sasha Cooper, Naval Intelligence."

It took a moment for recognition to ripple across his features, shortly followed by what Sasha could only describe as a sinking. The fingers of his right hand twitched around the thumb drive.

"Yes—" he acknowledged. Meek compared to the tone she'd heard him use with Tom. "Yes, I remember being given your file." A short briefing on the personnel with security clearance who'd be quarantined within his zone. "Your husband was one of the doctors."

Sasha's eyelids fluttered, and she gave a small nod of confirmation. With a soft inhale, she unclasped her hands, pushing them into the pockets of her jeans, and came closer to lean her shoulder against the bunk. "He was."

He seemed to have difficulty facing her direction upon learning that she was there. That she knew. Knew that everything had spun out of his control...

"I suppose the Captain sent you to try and reason with me? Using a different tack." The change in tone was sharp.

"Sure. Or you could stop and listen long enough to realize he's the only man in your corner."

That seemed to get his attention. His gaze darted back with a healthy dose of trepidation. "What do you mean?"

Did she know?

Sasha wet her lip before continuing. "XO thinks you're a lost cause. The Master Chief doesn't much care either way… and Sean Ramsey's gonna sink this ship whether you're on it or not. By tomorrow the crew will realize you're one of them, and the Captain's hand will be forced. He can't impeach you without a Congress, but I'll think you'll agree he's a little more creative than your average Commander—and it doesn't promote good working order to carry unnecessary cargo..." she grinned. "I hope you're a good swimmer."

He seemed to have no response other than scrutiny, though she could see the cogs turning beneath the deep furrow of his brow.

After letting her statement rest, she softened a fraction. "Look, I get it—why you'd be looking for meaning in all of this." She paused to collect her thoughts, showing perhaps more vulnerability than she'd intended. "But I was there too—and all I know is there are other people in this country—Americans—with families. Children, who won't have to watch them suffer and die if we work to give them this cure." He was grinding his jaw, eyes suspiciously glassy. "And I don't understand why, as the President of the United States, you wouldn't want to be part of that. We all lost something. All made sacrifices… most of the people on this ship still have no idea what they're even coming back to, but none of them abandoned their duty."

The President's eyelids fluttered, his grip on the thumb drive tight enough to render white knuckles, and Sasha watched those beady eyes travel down until they lingered upon her stomach, before casting off again. The hair on her neck and arms stood, prickling as though chilled.

"Like I said—" she moved toward the door, and looked over her shoulder "—we all lost something. You may find comfort in that if you stop deluding yourself into believing this is anything more than random."

When she stepped out, Tom pushed himself away from the wall and unfolded his arms. Beside him, the man she'd dubbed Hawaiian shirt, who'd appeared to relieve Green, straightened too.

"What do you think?" Though they were free of ears, Tom still kept his voice low.

"You're right—he's hiding something."

Saturday, August 18th, 2012—Chandler Residence, Norfolk, Virginia

Shifting the duffel strap higher, Mike waited on the porch. He could hear the kids yelling about something, Darien admonishing them to keep it down, and when Tom made it to the door, he was a little flushed. "Sorry about that, come in."

Darien rounded their hallway, and Mike smiled politely at her, still uncomfortable with the idea of crashing in their guest room for a few nights. She pulled him into a warm embrace. "Good to see you." Then drew back. "If you're hungry, there's some leftovers in the fridge. You can help yourself."

Mike tried to morph his features from their hollow state, but it felt cold. "Thanks, appreciate the offer." The reassuring squeeze on his shoulder before relinquishing said a lot. She'd always been good like that, Darien.

"I'll leave you both to it—" she leaned over and kissed Tom "—goodnight." Before retreating to their master bedroom.

"Beer?" Tom suggested, angling his body toward their kitchen. Some of the tension left Mike's frame, and he shrugged off the duffel leaving it beside the cloakroom closet along with the kids shoes. "Think I'll skip and get straight to the hard stuff if it's all the same to you."

"What are you gonna do?" Tom took a swig and listened to the crickets chirp. His feet were outstretched before him, crossed over at the ankle while he slumped in the sports chair. Beside him, Mike's response was gruff.

"Dunno. We agreed it was better for the kids if she stayed and I left… they're so used to me being gone half the year anyway. We haven't told them yet; they think I got called in."

Tom mulled it over selfishly glad that he didn't have to deal with a divorce, though he felt for Mike. Just didn't know what to say. Darien had always been better at this stuff. Companionable silence suited Mike just fine, however. Wasn't looking for a pity party, rather some good company and a stiff bottle to nurse his wounded pride until he figured out his next steps.

"Eh, fifty percent of marriages end in divorce, right? Was bound to happen to one of us."

"Something like that," Tom mumbled. He heard the bottle tip as Mike took another drink, smacking his lips a little against the burn of whiskey.

Mike rolled with his thoughts, letting them flow into the night between them. "You know—in twenty-four years, I've never been tempted."

It sounded a little bitter, and Tom didn't know why he needed to clarify, but he did. "To cheat?" He peered at Mike from his peripheral.

"Yeah." Mike paused for a beat, perplexed because his gut feeling picked up on something, though Tom remained impassive. Mike realized why. He was too stoic, jaw set in that overly benign manner. "You tellin' me you have?"

Sometimes, having a former detective as a best friend hindered more than it helped. Tom shifted to study a tree. A light breeze danced through its leaves, casting shadowed patterns across the ground. He didn't often choose to examine nor resurrect his memories of Sasha—often they came with sentiments better left buried—but inevitably, there were reminders. Instances, such as the present, where he couldn't help but default to her, and Tom hadn't noticed how long he'd let silence linger.

Brow furrowed Mike drank. Never pegged Tom as a cheater, nor Christine for that matter, but what did he know? Evidently, not enough.

Tom's sigh was heavy, and he shifted glad that their master bedroom faced the street and there was no way Darien could overhear. Still, he kept his tone low and murmured, "Only once." Twice, his mind chastised, but he wasn't going there. He'd take that to his grave.

"With who?" Mike was genuinely blindsided.

Tom could still picture her laying in the sand clear as day. Almost feel the humidity on his skin. "Sasha."

Well shit. Mike's brows rose of their own accord. "Your ex-girlfriend?" It was a little incredulous. "When was this? I didn't know you guys still talk."

Tom had to fight his inclination to bristle in response to that term. Even now it didn't feel right. Too juvenile and trivial. Like a transient thing you did in your twenties before settling down. He couldn't surmise her with a label, she was simply Sasha, and what that meant, only he knew. "We don't. It was a few years ago—I ran into her at a bar, and somehow we ended up on a beach." Tom took another drink, eyes narrowed while he brooded off into the distance.

Mike examined that information, reading between the unspoken lines. "Well did you?"

"No." Tom's response was quick and definitive, and while Mike believed him, the muddled aura surrounding his confession communicated it wasn't that simple. "But I'd be lying if I said I didn't think about it. I shouldn't have even been there, but I wanted to be around her. I was being selfish. Said some things I had no business saying."

Mike ruminated for a moment. "Does Darien know?"

Tom shook his head, the tug of his lips more a grimace. Therein lay the problem. This wasn't something he ever wanted to disclose because he knew damn well that Sasha was off-limits. "No—and that's exactly why I know it was wrong."

Mike leaned back in the chair again, swirling the whiskey within its bottle. "You know I always thought she was a mail-order bride or something. Some hot chick from the Ukraine who looks nothin' like her picture when she shows up at the airport?"

Tom puffed out a laugh. Memories of days long past where Mike mercilessly joked that his 'girlfriend' wasn't real because he found every excuse in existence not to introduce them. Nor offer details that weren't suspiciously vague. The grin faded from Tom's lips, replaced instead with a contemplative look.

"Didn't realize it was that serious between you," Mike mused, his thoughts drifting inevitably back to Christine. He'd been a shitty husband, and he owned his part in the decline of their marriage—regretted it amongst other things—but he loved her. It wasn't something you just switched off because things didn't work out.

Damn.

He took another sip of whiskey, the sloshing liquid filling the silence, and Tom slouched further until his neck was cradled by the back of the chair. Aimlessly Tom pursued the sky. The gentle friction of the breeze lulled in a way that morphed into waves. It was a beautiful night, mostly clear with wispy passing clouds, and though the stars paled in comparison to their sight from an open ocean, a very particular one still glistened.

A ghost of all too familiar weight settled in his chest, and Tom closed his eyes, accepting this was just one of those moments where he'd find hers staring back.

December 10th, 2013—USS Nathan James, 30 NM Offshore, Palm Coast, Florida

"This is everything." Sasha produced a quarter stack thick of paper records she'd pulled on Michener, only a handful of them unique compared to the ones Tom had clearance to access or had decrypted from the White House archives.

There was a knock on Tom's cabin door. "Come in."

Master Chief Jeter tucked his head around the doorway. "Sorry to disturb you, sir. But there's something you need to hear."

Tom fought the tick of frustration, by no means anyone's fault. Rather irritation that this day wouldn't end, and he couldn't get a goddamn thing done before the next urgent priority wound up on his plate. He stood from where he'd been perched against his desk, meeting Sasha's gaze, which silently asked for direction.

When they arrived, XO Slattery was already waiting, and Sasha didn't miss the tick of his jaw when their gazes caught. Equally as fast, Slattery averted, and she fought with the need to call him out for his frankly piss-poor assumptions.

Lieutenant Granderson switched some buttons on a console. "It's a looping message on a major FM frequency, sir."

A woman's voice was heard:

"Attention citizens of America, this is a message to you from the underground: The US Naval Ship Nathan James has been traveling up and down the East Coast, claiming to have a cure for the Red Flu—'" Collective tension passed between the three officers. Russell Jeter pressed his fingers to his mouth, and Tom felt rather than saw the way his XO delivered a foreboding stare that all but screamed his suspicions.

"No one knows exactly what they're giving people, but what we do know is they are responsible for executing Project Bluenose. The same mission that brought the bio-engineered virus to the states—'

Three different gazes landed in Sasha's direction, her own surprise evident in the way her lips parted. It was enough for Jeter to look toward his Captain with unmasked concern.

"How the hell—" Mike started, but Tom cut him off.

"Can you trace the source?"

Granderson shook her head. "No, sir. We're receiving the broadcast from multiple directions."

"Should you come in contact with this ship, stay away or fight them—what they're offering is not a cure, and it does not work! We're tired of being lied to.'"

Tom could feel the heat coming from Mike. It stopped. Static cycled for a few seconds before the message looped over. "Shut it down," he commanded.

"There's no way—"

Tom held up a palm to silence Slattery, addressing Granderson first, "Lieutenant, you did a good job. I need the room."

"Aye, sir."

The urge to slam both hands on the console surged, Mike tightened them instead, and Sasha squared her posture.

"No doubt it's the Ramsey's," Mike said the second Granderson had left.

"I'll bet," she replied easily. Too easy, and it did nothing but light more fire under his ass.

"And how is it they have access to top-secret mission briefs?"

Eyes narrowed, Sasha folded both arms in a smug manner that he only wanted to wipe from her admittedly attractive face.

"I wouldn't know… but I'm sure you have some theories."

Mike scoffed, his smirk a sneer. "Come on—I can't be the only one not buying this."

Quietly Jeter tipped his head, perhaps not ready to agree—yet—but failing to understand his Captain's subtle but adamant defense of this woman without elaboration. Reticent Tom peered between them, unreadable but debating how far he'd let this go. Couldn't deny that the optics were poor, but it didn't fit her MO. Sasha was anything but sloppy, and for her to have a hand in something so easily traceable didn't ring true. At least to him.

"What exactly is it that you're accusing me of?" Sasha challenged.

"Seriously? A spook who knew about everything—Bluenose, the scientists, the mission—gets pulled overnight from an op but not reassigned? You're telling me they went to the trouble of clearing you on all that just to stick you on desk duty? It doesn't add up—" Mike redirected to both the Captain and Master Chief, gesturing vaguely in Sasha's direction, "—you do know she speaks Russian, right? How did Ruskov even get to Quincy's family?"

Her neck quirked. "Congratulations—you read my file. Did you miss the part where I speak eleven others? How do you know I wasn't selling the US out to the Chinese? Why stop at the Russians?"

Tom clamped his lips together to suppress the smirk.

"Who knows? You heard the tapes. Everyone went rogue—every man for himself—Ramsey could have had a hand from the start, and we'd never know it. He didn't have the numbers to spread his message yet. But you don't seem to know anything about that, do you? You know everything else, but when it comes to him—suddenly there's no intel? Conveniently you're at that hotel?"

Tom's amusement rapidly evaporated. Something within Sasha morphed, and he'd later question why he could still feel that so intuitively.

"And you still haven't told anyone what you've been doing for all these months. Won't answer a straight question—"

"You haven't asked me a question. Just informed me of my part in this elaborate conspiracy—"

"Why were you pulled from that op!?" Mike demanded, volume several decibels higher.

The Master Chief frowned.

Sasha stepped forward, "Like my file said—I failed pre-op."

Mike postured. "Bull. Shit."

"That's enough," Tom commanded. Conduct from his XO aside, something had just gone severely awry. The flush of Sasha's cheeks and set of her jaw predicated it. Urgency compelled Tom to insert himself between them, but he wasn't fast enough to beat her words.

"I was pregnant."

The abrupt end to Mike's dialogue, and the entire argument that information brought settled like dust after a mortar, and under the blazing challenge she'd directed toward him, Mike felt himself shrink.

"I was trying not to get myself or my unborn child killed. Is that good enough for you? Or do you need the morbid details too?"

Visibly swallowing, Mike stood down.

The tremor started in her hands. She clenched them. "We're done here." Refused to look at Tom when she pivoted, slipping past his rigid frame—couldn't—not when she was this raw. Politely, the Master Chief created distance between himself and the hatch he'd earlier secured, and the sound of heavy metal clunking perfectly resonated with the grave Mike had unearthed for himself.

Tom was fuming, simmering, and searing. Blue ablaze with white-hot heat, and he fought for the appropriate response. The XO pre-empted him, however.

"I was out of line."

"That was unacceptable." The words were barked out, gruff, and barreling like a bullet in response, and Tom shut down on the rest. Every sinew itched to attack, but he was ever mindful that Jeter was still a passive observer, and he couldn't ignore his complicity. He'd allowed this spiral further beyond control than he should—all but allowed her to be backed into that corner. Inappropriately extended leeway on both sides thanks to mutual biases.

"Take a walk," he bit out, stance squared with hands clasped behind his back so tight his knuckle throbbed.

XO Slattery gave an abrupt formal nod, and moved toward the hatch, only halting upon hearing Chandler's next stern command.

"And Mike—" Tom looked over his shoulder, ensuring there could be no mistaking his conviction "—you will work on one hell of an apology."

"Understood." Slattery gave another small nod, appropriately embarrassed by his own behavior without the added fury seeping insidiously from Tom's corner of the suffocating room.